Picture This
by girl in the glen
Summary: A picture is worth a thousand words, but what if you don't have the words to go with the picture. For PicFic Tuesday on Section VII.


"I didn't say it would be easy."

The only response to that was an exaggerated roll of the blue eyes that met Napoleon's own. He was counting on Illya to figure out the clues to this puzzle.

"Look, Illya... No, I mean listen to me, not look... Just, listen to me a minute."

Russians could be surly at times, and this one was working on a good case of the surlies. Napoleon wasn't making any sense, the painting was a forgery and still he was expected to extract the answers to a cryptic puzzle left by a madman who happened to work for THRUSH.

"Napoleon, please slow down and do not ask me to listen. I have heard everything you said and it still makes no sense to me. The clues are not ... they simply are not clues. I believe this is a fool's errand at best. I am sorry, but I see nothing here that corresponds to what we were given." He was sorry, but not apologetic. It was not his fault that someone had got this all wrong.

Solo hung his head in mock defeat. He knew his partner would figure it out eventually, he just needed a little more time.

"Okay, fine... just take a break. We'll come back to this after we've had some lunch. You hungry Illya?" There was an indelible connection between Illya's appetite and Illya's ability to work out difficult problems. Feed the man and watch him go.

"I could eat, I suppose. It will certainly be a welcome distraction from looking at this dreary piece of forged artwork.' The blond looked around the room and settled his attention on his superior. Alexander Waverly was fond of the painting, something that gave Kuryakin pause as he reconsidered his disdain for it.

"My apologies, sir. I did not intend to ..." A mild harrumph from the tweedy old gentleman dismissed the need for apologies.

"Mr. Kuryakin, it is neither here nor there regarding your taste in art. The question is, do we have any idea what it conceals in the way of a message. I was hopeful that you might be able to decipher whatever that message might be, however, if you are unable..." Illya nearly choked on his previous utterances. Unable? That was not the issue here; the problem was not in his inability to find the answers, it lay in the _absence_ of answers.

"Sir..." Waverly waved him off.

"Go, both of you, perhaps you need some protein to fuel your powers of observation. I intend to continue here and see, ahh, what is to be seen." He turned around to face the painting, leaving Napoleon and Illya staring at the back of Waverly's head.

The pair exited the office and headed towards the nearest elevator, quickening their pace as the intonation of their commander rankled beneath normally reserved demeanors. Illya was almost certain that there would be no revelations forthcoming from the painting, while Napoleon hoped against hope that something, anything, might be ferreted out and used to stop whatever it was that needed stopping. Come to think of it, he hadn't actually been informed what it was they were trying to circumvent.

"Illya, what is it that Mallory said about the painting?" The Russian pressed the button on the elevator as both men stood and stared at the lighted panel above the door. When the door opened, they each stepped into the empty car and immediately back out again.

"He said that the code was in the light. I've been looking at it all wrong. The code is in the light." Napoleon was still puzzled. "I don't get it. The light of day, light in a window...?" Illya was shaking his head now, his own light suddenly glowing brightly.

"No, no... Light, as in ... how do you say it? Light up. The cigarette that the man is smoking. The clue is in the light, or the lit cigarette. That is where the clue is. Bohze moy... I cannot believe that it took me this long."

Indeed, the clue was in the light, or the lit cigarette. After careful scrutinizing and analyzing, Illya and Napoleon were able to determine a date and location was indicated within the brush strokes. An ingenious application when the forgery was painted, obviously a means of communicating with an as yet unknown co-conspirator. Mallory was in custody, and soon others would be as well. Having broken the man's code he was now more amenable to cooperating with UNCLE in the rounding up of his former associates.

Mr. Waverly found the experience quite enjoyable, rather like breaking code back before computers and analysts made it all a bit less fun. The young Russian had come through after all, something the elder member of this organization doubted not a bit.

As for Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, they had endured enough art appreciation for the time being. The American's relentless optimism had triumphed once again, his faith in the abilities of his partner paying off nicely. He liked to think his encouragement had been a factor.

Illya credited the elevator.


End file.
